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“Why fleeting?” Constance asked.
Diogenes looked at her a moment. “The Pendergast family has been in a long, slow decline. My brother and I are the last. Although my brother married, his charming wife… met an untimely end before she could reproduce. I have neither wife nor child. If we die without issue, the Pendergast line will vanish from the earth.”
They proceeded to the next painting.
“The American branch of the family ended up in New Orleans,” he continued. “They moved comfortably in the wealthy circles of antebellum society. There, the last of the Venetian branch of the family, il Marquese Orazio Paladin Prendergast, married Eloise de Braquilanges in a wedding so lavish and brilliant it was talked about for generations. Their only child, however, became fascinated with the peoples, and the practices, of the surrounding bayous. He took the family in a wholly unexpected direction.” He gestured at the portrait, displaying a tall, goateed man in a brilliant white suit with a blue ascot. “Augustus Robespierre St. Cyr Pendergast. He was the first fruit of the reunited family lines, a doctor and a philosopher, who dropped an r from the last name to make it more American. He was the cream of old New Orleans society-until he married a ravishingly beautiful woman from the deep bayou who spoke no English and was given to strange nocturnal practices.” Diogenes paused a moment, as if reflecting on something. Then he chuckled.
“It’s remarkable,” Constance breathed, fascinated despite herself. “All these years I’ve stared at these faces, trying to put names and histories to them. A few of the most recent ones I could guess at, but the rest…” She shook her head.
“Great-Uncle Antoine never told you of his ancestry?”
“No. He never spoke of it.”
“I’m not surprised, really-he left the family on bad terms. As, in fact, did I.” Diogenes hesitated. “And it’s clear my brother never spoke much of the family to you, either.”
Constance took a sip from her glass in lieu of reply.
“I know a great deal about my family, Constance. I have taken pains to learn their secret histories.” He glanced at her again. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to be able to share this with you. I feel I can talk to you… like no other.”
She met his eyes only briefly before returning them to the portrait.
“You deserve to know it,” he continued. “Because after all, you’re a member of the family, too-in a way.”
Constance shook her head. “I’m only a ward,” she said.
“To me, you are more than that-much more.”
They had hesitated before the portrait of Augustus. Now, to break a silence that threatened to grow awkward, Diogenes said, “How do you like the cocktail?”
“Interesting. It has an initial bitterness that blossoms on the tongue into… well, something else entirely. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
She looked at Diogenes for approval and he smiled. “Go on.”
She took another small sip. “I detect licorice and aniseed, eucalyptus, fe
Diogenes smiled, sipped from his own glass. “Absinthe. Hand-macerated and distilled, the finest available. I have it flown in from Paris for my personal consumption. Diluted slightly with sugar and water, as is the classic preparation. The flavor you can’t identify is thujone.”
Constance stared at the glass in surprise. “Absinthe? Made from wormwood? I thought it was illegal.”
“We should not be concerned with such trifles. It is powerful, mind-expanding: which is why great artists from Van Gogh to Monet to Hemingway made it their drink of choice.”
Constance took another, cautious sip.
“Look into it, Constance. Have you ever seen a drink of such a pure and unadulterated color? Hold it up to the light. It’s like gazing at the moon through a flawless emerald.”
For a moment, she remained motionless, as if searching for answers in the green depths of the liqueur. Then she took another, slightly less tentative sip.
“How does it make you feel?”
“Warm. Light.”
They continued slowly down the gallery.
“I find it remarkable,” she said after a moment, “that Antoine fitted up this interior into a perfect replica of the family mansion in New Orleans. Down to the last detail-including these paintings.”
“He had them re-created by a famous artist of the day. He worked with the artist for five years, reconstructing the faces from memory and a few faded engravings and drawings.”
“And the rest of the house?”
“Almost identical to the original, save for his choice of volumes in the library. The use he devoted all the sub-basement chambers to, however, was… unique, to say the least. The New Orleans mansion was effectively below sea level and so had its basements lined with sheets of lead: that wasn’t necessary here.” He sipped his drink. “After my brother took over this house, a great many changes were made. It is no longer the place Uncle Antoine called home. But then, you know that all too well.”
Constance did not reply.
They reached the end of the gallery, where a long, backless settee awaited, cushioned in plush velvet. Nearby lay an elegant English game bag by John Chapman in which Diogenes had brought the bottle of absinthe. Now he lowered himself gracefully onto the settee and motioned for Constance to do the same.
She sat down beside him, placing the glass of absinthe on a nearby salver. “And the music?” she asked, nodding as if to indicate the shimmering piano scales that freighted the air.
“Ah, yes. That is Alkan, the forgotten musical genius of the nineteenth century. You will never hear a more luxuriant, cerebral, technically challenging artist-never. When his pieces were first played-a rare event, by the way, since few pianists are up to the challenge-people thought them to be diabolically inspired. Even now Alkan’s music inspires strange behavior in listeners. Some think they smell smoke while listening; others find themselves trembling or growing faint. This piece is the Grande Sonate, ‘Les Quatre Âges.’ The Hamelin recording, of course: I’ve never heard more assured virtuosity or more commanding finger technique.” He paused, listening intently a moment. “This fugal passage, for instance: if you count the octave doublings, it has more parts than a pianist has fingers! I know you must appreciate it, Constance, as few do.”
“Antoine was never a great appreciator of music. I learned the violin entirely on my own.”
“So you can appreciate the intellectual and sensual heft of the music. Just listen to it! And thank God the greatest musical philosopher was a romantic, a decadent-not some smug Mozart with his puerile false cadences and predictable harmonies.”
Constance listened a moment in silence. “You seem to have worked rather hard to make this moment agreeable.”
Diogenes laughed lightly. “And why not? I can think of few pastimes more rewarding than to make you happy.”
“You seem to be the only one,” she said after a pause, in a very low voice.
The smile left Diogenes’s face. “Why do you say that?”
“Because of what I am.”
“You are a beautiful and brilliant young woman.”
“I’m a freak.”
Very quickly-yet with exceptional tenderness-Diogenes took her hands. “No, Constance,” he said softly and urgently. “Not at all. Not to me.”
She looked away. “You know my history.”
“Yes.”
“Then surely you, of all people, would understand. Knowing how I’ve lived-the way in which I’ve lived, here in this house, all these years… don’t you find it bizarre? Repugnant?” Suddenly she looked back at him, eyes blazing with strange fire. “I am an old woman, trapped in the body of a young woman. Who would ever want me?”
Diogenes drew closer. “You have acquired the gift of experience-without the awful cost of age. You are young and vibrant. It may feel a burden to you now, but it doesn’t have to be. You can be free of it anytime you choose. You can begin to live whenever you want. Now, if you choose.”